


Glitter Nights

by Ahmerst



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahmerst/pseuds/Ahmerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little fic that takes place during Noiz and Aoba’s time at Glitter in which Aoba wakes to hear the television on, and unable to go back to sleep, goes to see who’s watching it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitter Nights

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for dmmd, gosh. I've been working on nothing but commissions for the past few months, so it's nice to write a little something for myself.

It’s night, always night, in a kind of nightmarish way. Aoba wakes up each time to disorientation and darkness, the coil around his wrist what keeps him in the present, tells him the hour, the minute, the very second.

It tells him it’s half past four when he wakes to a low noise. It’s a kind of mumbling, one he thinks might be remnants of a conversation in his dream. He knows there are words, but he doesn’t know what they’re saying, or if he even understands the language.

It’s when he gets up to use the bathroom that he knows it isn’t in his head. The noise is coming from down the hall, and when he casts a cursory look in that direction, there’s a low flashing light that shows on the wall he can see, the kind that comes from scenes changing on a television screen.

He’s awake enough by the time he’s finished washing his hands to know he won’t be sleeping anytime soon, and there’s a weak kind of biting hunger in his stomach that keeps him from returning to his room. He pads down the hall with his socks still on, too tired to take them off before he slept, not quite caring enough to fix them now.

The sounds, the light, it’s from the TV after all. Noiz sprawls on the couch in front of it, flat on his back with one knee bent, an arm under his head to support him as he watches. The remote dangles lazily in his free hand, as though he might change the channel sooner than later.

The shining glaze that reflects in his eyes as the show plays makes Aoba wonder if Noiz is even watching to begin with.

“Anything good on TV?” Aoba asks as he passes into the kitchen. It’s not so much a real question as it is a reason to make noise, to alert Noiz to his presence.

“I don’t get it,” Noiz says. There’s a tired sort of gravelly tone underlying his voice, as though he’s two hours past exhausted. He puts the remote down on the floor with a lazy clatter, like it’ll take too much energy to change the station.

“Well, what isn’t there to get?” Aoba asks, pouring himself a cup of orange juice. He sips it at the counter, scrubs his hand over his face in an attempt to wipe away the last of his drowsiness.

It doesn’t work.

“The whole fucking thing,” Noiz says. “It’s like, maybe they’re siblings? But probably not, because they look like they’re going to kiss, too.”

Aoba’s orange juice gets caught in his throat in just the wrong way, and he takes a second to splutter and regain his breath before he’s making his way back to see what’s happening.

“I mean, look at this,” Noiz continues. He gestures with his now-free hand at the TV. His expression isn’t one of anger or disgust, but instead a kind of honest confusion seen on the faces of children.

For the usual thin line of his lips and scrutinizing gaze, Noiz’s eyes look at Aoba only with the wish to understand. Like he trusts Aoba to tell him what’s happening. Aoba shakes his head with a sigh as the light from the TV reflects on Noiz’s many piercings, and sits.

Or at least, he tries to. Even with one knee bent, Noiz takes up nearly the entirety of the couch, and Aoba comes into contact with him as he sits. Noiz doesn’t flinch so much as he makes a noise, something from the back of his throat like he’s startled, not that he’s bothered by it.

“Make room,” Aoba says, slapping at Noiz’s knee.

Noiz grunts, unbends his knee, and takes up as much as the couch as he physically can. His eyes are brighter than they were before, awake and defiant.

“And here I was thinking you were twelve years old,” Aoba scolds. He wags his finger in the same way his grandma always does. “You’re ten, just ten.”

“I’m not ten,” Noiz insists.

His hands are quick and agile as they snake out to ensnare Aoba, rest heavy on his waist before they pull him down in one quick motion. Aoba’s elbows hit Noiz first, but the strike doesn’t so much as make him blink.

Instead he holds fast, suffers through Aoba’s protests as he struggles. He has more energy and strength at the moment, and Aoba knows a losing battle when he sees it. He surrenders in the end, his fighting turning into a weak wriggling as he makes himself comfortable.

His hands are pinned beneath him, caught between his chest and Noiz’s, and he thinks there’s no way this could be comfortable for either of them. But then his body figures its own way out, aligns itself so he’s settled over Noiz like a blanket, hips not quite aligned and bellies touching through their shirts.

Aoba doesn’t know where to put his head, but Noiz is quick to show what he wants. He rests his palm on Aoba’s hair, ignores how Aoba’s fists clench and that his tongue clicks in discomfort against the roof of his mouth.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Aoba asks. Usually Noiz is the one dodging every touch, taking one step back for every move Aoba makes closer.

Noiz grunts again, winds a lock of blue hair around his finger. It leaves Aoba’s muscles tensed and unsure of what to do. It’s not unlike having fingers brush over raw skin that’s had a day or two to heal, a kind of pain that almost isn’t there, that almost isn’t pain at all.

Aoba doesn‘t know what to call it.

“I’m trying something out,” is what Noiz finally replies with, and he doesn’t go into detail beyond that.

Aoba turns his head in the dark, cheek pressing against Noiz’s chest as he tries to distract himself from the hand in his hair that’s making his skin prickle. He watches the TV without entirely taking it in at first, eyes adjusting to the light of it and the flickering images.

But then he sees what’s on the screen is a mirror image of how Noiz has pulled him down, how one hand is resting on his head and the other is— where? Oh, there it is, settling on the spot between his shoulder blades, just like on the TV.

The show playing slowly becomes familiar, and by the time a commercial break interrupts it, Aoba’s chest is rumbling with soft laughter he can’t keep back, and he hides his face in Noiz’s shirt, breath puffing hot out his nose as his lips quirk up.

“What’s so funny to you?” Noiz asks, and the way his breath brushes over the crown of Aoba’s hair turns Aoba’s chuckles into a short choke.

“The show— it’s a drama. You’ve been watching a drama,” Aoba says. “So no wonder it doesn’t make a lot of sense. This always was one of the weirder ones, Grams watches it all the time.”

When Noiz doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t make a sound even as the commercials finish and the show comes back on, Aoba lifts his head to see if he’s somehow fallen asleep.

Noiz looks down at him, eyes very much open and nearly lime in the light of the television. His expression is entirely placid, like he’s not entirely satisfied with the answer, but disinterested enough that he’s not going to press.

“Don’t you know what a drama is?” Aoba asks, and he finds belatedly that Noiz’s face is too close.

Not close enough to kiss, but close enough to make out his dark lashes in the dim light. The glint of metal as his tongue darts out to wet his own lips, leaving a slight gloss of saliva behind. He doesn’t have a specific scent as much as he smells like an experience. Like an unmade bed after a long day, something cozy and welcoming.

“You mean a soap opera? Noiz asks.

“I guess, yeah. I mean, they’re not exactly the same thing but—”

“Just say soap opera next time,” Noiz interrupts.

Aoba rolls his eyes and drops his head back down. He means to keep watching the show, but it’s been ages since he’s seen it, and it’s more convoluted than he recalls. There’s a dull ache thumping in his temples the longer he keeps his eyes open, and as confused as he is, he can’t deny that the steady rise and fall of Noiz’s chest beneath him is lulling him back to a tired state.

The hand on his hair is unmoving enough not to be a bother, becoming only a harbinger of the warmth thrumming through his veins.

Tiny nails click across the floor, and Aoba twitches in surprise when something small jumps onto the couch. It’s Ren, weight soft and paws careful as he pads his way up Aoba’s legs although he’s maneuvering a balancing beam. When he finds his way to the small of Aoba’s back, his steps turn circular as he pads around and around until he’s satisfied with the spot he’s chosen.

He curls up in the dip of Aoba’s spine with a tired snuffle, and a quiet whirring follows as he enters sleep mode.

Aoba finds himself following the same path, eyelids heavy as his brain fogs over. When he next looks the the television, the screen is dark, and Aoba can’t recall Noiz’s hand ever moving to turn it off. His lips move to ask if the power is out, but the words stay on the tip of his tongue when he looks to Noiz’s face.

It’s passive in slumber, his usual look of disdain gone and lips slightly parted. His hands are still settled in a mirrored position of what had previously on the screen, what it was he was ‘trying out,’ and Aoba thinks it’s best not to wake him. He’s young, and the young still need their rest.

Aoba decides he’s young enough to treat himself to a couple more hours of shut eye as well and wearily lowers his head and lets his eyes close. Noiz sighs in his sleep and shifts, hands moving as his arms come up to wrap around Aoba and hold him close. His grip is tired but strong, like a child latching onto their favorite stuffed animal.

Aoba finds he doesn’t mind that. So much has happened in such a short time, nonstop days of running himself ragged until his body aches as much as his head, that all he wants is to bring everything to a screeching halt and hide. And here he can hide, if only for a few hours, held safe in Noiz’s arms with his nose to his chest, taking in that comforting scent as sleep finally overwhelms him.


End file.
